


Not Yet (Please Now)

by helens78



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Begging, Community: kink_bingo, Dubious Consent, F/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-07
Updated: 2011-06-07
Packaged: 2017-10-20 05:30:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/209265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helens78/pseuds/helens78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Telling Sansa she can't doesn't actually stop her, but of course Littlefinger must have known it wouldn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Yet (Please Now)

**Author's Note:**

> I... I don't even know. I was quietly working on another fic and my brain went "YOU MUST WRITE PETYR/SANSA ORGASM CONTROL FIC. NOW." And I said, "But... I have no idea how they even end up on the run together in canon, what the fuck!" And my brain replied, "SO WHAT." So, er. This happened.

His hands are stronger than they look, and she doesn't know if it's because he trains when no one's looking or if it's because he's had so many women in positions just like this one. Held down so they won't run, held fast so they can't squirm. The name _Littlefinger_ feels like a cruel joke; Lord Baelish's hands aren't small, not really, and right now they have her right where he wants her.

Sansa twists her face away, as if that'll do any good; he can probably smell it on her, all that want, all that need. It's not her fault. He's been seducing her since they took off together, _seducing_ and not assuming, not the way Joffrey did.

Even his hand on her throat is a seduction; even his hand in her hair. He knows, maybe, that she doesn't know how to say yes. He knows she needs a firm hand, just not a cruel one, and that's what he is to her: a firm hand to keep her in her place. _This_ place. With him.

She still remembers what it was like being taken for the first time, how much she'd ached for him, over and over, until finally he gave her his fingers (not little, never little, not when they were deep inside her that first time), and in spite of the pain and the fear, there was need above all else, need that wasn't just for any man's hands or his cock but for _him_.

Now it's his cock, filling her up, while he puts a hand on her throat and holds her head down by the hair and whispers, "Not yet, girl, not until I say--"

She whimpers. He always says that, always tells her to wait, and she can't this time. She _can't_. They ran, today; they hid, they held their breath together and stayed unseen, and on days when she's still safe and still alive despite the odds, it's as though her whole body vibrates for this, as though she could come just from being breathed on.

She wonders if he knows how to do that. If anyone does, it's likely him.

She draws her knees up, angles herself to get more of his cock inside her. Sometimes when he's deep enough, there's still a little pain, and that helps her to hold off from coming, at least for a while.

Sometimes, like now, like this moment when his hands are holding her still, the pain is just another kind of pleasure, deep and deceitful, hurting until it threatens to push her to the other side regardless.

She brings her hands up, small and slim on his back, and scratches at him. He grins down at her, eyes narrowed, smile false--she's beginning to know all his false smiles now, and wonders if she's ever seen a real one.

"Not yet," he tells her, hand tight against her throat. She closes her eyes and focuses on breathing, which gives her something to think about other than the pleasure, other than how close she's getting, how her thighs are drenched with her need.

He tugs at her hair, lightly, oh-so-lightly, and that's it: suddenly she can't wait anymore, and she knows it. She grasps his arms and opens her eyes, looking at him in a panic. " _Please_ ," she mouths, hands tightening, "my lord, please, please--"

But his smile doesn't change. "No."

Too late, too much--she gasps and curls forward, fighting it down. _Not yet, not yet, not yet--_

But as she curls forward, he bends down, putting his lips at her ear. "Don't," he warns her. " _Don't_. I know you want to--I know you can't help yourself--but I said _no_ , so it's _no_. Hold yourself together, don't think about the pleasure, don't think about how hot you are for my cock, how hot you _always_ are for it, how I barely need to touch you and you're wet for me--"

"--please," she begs, beyond caring about his words ( _true, they're all true, every one of them, oh, Gods, help me_ ), and she finds herself left with only that, that one word, all she can give, something she _has_ to give him. "Please, please, _please_..."

He pants against her lips, breath hot, mustache tickling. " _No_ ," he growls, low and deep, and he slams himself into her, faster now, just right, but _no_ , he said, but _yes_ , she can't--no, Gods, no, she can't _stop_ \--

He's laughing as she comes, laughing as the tremors take her, laughing as the pleasure releases and leaves her begging and wrecked and shaky. He takes his hands off her hair, her throat, and holds himself up, looking down at her as she tries to breathe and struggles for--anything, really; dignity, composure, a moment's belief that she's more than just another one of Petyr Baelish's whores.

But as he strains and spends himself, she knows she's lying to herself. She opens her eyes while he's catching his breath, and she reaches out for him when he starts to move away.

"Please--!"

He pauses and raises an eyebrow at her. "You'd like to stay like this?" he asks, gently rolling his hips forward. He's softening now; she can feel it even as he moves. But he lowers himself down on top of her, and she wraps her arms around his shoulders and tucks her face into his neck.

His lips move against her shoulder, and she has to strain to hear him, even from this close. "--such a naughty girl," he murmurs, "coming even when you're told you can't..."

She nods against him and squeezes her eyes shut tight. "I'll be better next time," she promises. "I'll be good."

"I'll teach you," he whispers, and he bites down lightly on her shoulder. She gasps, but clutches him all the tighter.

She's good at lessons.

 _-end-_


End file.
